Lena Jones 02 - Desert Wives

smirked. “Why, ma’am, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Yes, you do, and I’m telling you right now, if those fires don’t stop, I’m going to be all over your butt like a bad pair of pants until your firebug ass gets locked up permanent. And, Miles? Now that you’re eighteen, you’re too old for Juvie. The next time you go down it’ll be to the State Correctional Facility in Florence where the big boys live. You’ll be the sweetest piece of ass they’ve seen in a long time.”
    The blue eyes blinked rapidly, then shifted to his father.
    “Pop?” Miles whined, now sounding decidedly non-Lauren-esque. “Are you going to let her talk to me this way?”
    Dad rushed to his baby’s rescue. “You got no call to talk to my boy like that! Get the hell out of here!”
    I nodded, but directed a parting shot to Miles. “Remember what I said, little boy. One more fire and you’d better start stocking up on K-Y Jelly.”
    When I stood to leave, Ringo, who had been lying adoringly at his master’s feet, stood too. He looked at my own butt, perhaps envisioning a rare rump roast for dinner. Miles’ eyes flicked toward his dog.
    “If that dog bites me I’ll shoot it first and ask questions later.” I punctuated my words by patting the carry-all that served as my purse. A
thunk
revealed my .38’s presence. Like so many Arizonans, I was licensed to carry.
    My threat worked.
    “Ringo, sit,” Papa Alder ordered.
    I made it to the Jeep in one piece.
    Back at the office, things had slowed down. Jimmy had spent the day running background checks for the semiconductor company, and he had narrowed the thief down to three suspects, all of whom had criminal records.
    “I don’t know why employers don’t do this themselves,” he said. “Just think of all the money they’d save.”
    “They don’t do it because they’re not as good as you are, Slick.”
    Jimmy snorted. “It’s so easy a child…”
    “…could do it,” I finished for him. Yeah, sure, a child with an I.Q. of 156, who’d grown up playing with computers the way other children played with Matchbox cars.
    He pushed away from his keyboard and faced me. I had noticed long before that his tribal tattoos tended to darken when he was worried, and they looked almost black now.
    “Lena, those guys from Utah. I don’t like that they traveled all the way down here.”
    I nodded. “I’m worried, too. I told Esther to take a trip somewhere, anywhere, but I’m betting she won’t. She has this ridiculous belief in Truth, Justice, and the American Way.”
    “What’s so ridiculous about that?”
    I snorted. Recently, a Maricopa County judge had forcibly returned a fourteen-year-old AIDS patient from Arizona, where she lived with a beloved aunt, to Minnesota to live in an adult AIDS shelter. Why? Because her father, who stayed in a Minnesotan rehab center after his release from a stretch in prison for child neglect, wanted closer access to his daughter. Following a long tradition in the addled Arizona court system, the judge decided that parental rights superseded the rights of the child, regardless of how sleazy the parent. Truth? Justice? The American Way? Not for Arizona’s children.
    But I simply said to Jimmy, “If those Utah cops catch up with Esther, she’ll be extradited to Utah before you can say Brigham Young.”
    Jimmy turned back to his computer without saying a word.
    Two hours later, my prediction came true. As I was closing up the office, the phone rang. It was Esther Corbett, calling me from the Scottsdale City Jail, where she was being held pending extradition to Utah.
    For the murder of Solomon Royal.

Chapter 3
    Under the glare of the cell’s harsh light, Esther Corbett looked ten years older. No trace of the glow that had been painted across her face when I had returned her daughter to her a week earlier remained. Unhealthy shadows crept into the hollows under her cheekbones and eyes.
    “Lena, you have to do something,” she rasped at me, her voice raw, probably from crying. “Rebecca’s father is driving down from Utah to take her back to Purity.” She clutched at my hand as if we were mountain climbers and her safety line had broken. I’d have bruises tomorrow.
    “At least Rebecca’s safe for now,” I said, tapping my notebook, where I’d written down the address and phone number where the girl was now staying. “Your ex-husband doesn’t have custody, so we’ve got some time to